


static on the radio

by TaffySinclair



Category: The Following
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:54:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaffySinclair/pseuds/TaffySinclair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Mike's an open book, Debra's a brick wall.  He decides to take matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	static on the radio

In the dark, he listens, waiting for what seems like hours until her breathing becomes even. It's easy to be patient, to lie with her and convince himself to just stay there, to just be _satisfied_. But when the time comes and he's sure she's asleep, he slips out of bed anyway. His window of opportunity is limited; she's a light sleeper now. Maybe she always was. He wouldn't know. 

Her place looks like something out of a magazine, which is probably why she's started letting him come over more often. His own apartment, sorry to say, is reminiscent of a college dorm room at the moment, with an overstuffed hamper and clutter stacked in every corner. She had pretended to find it charming at first, but soon she started suggesting that he come over to her place now and then. (He also suspects that she might not like dogs, or at least not his dog, which might have been a deal-breaker in the past, but he's finding it easier to just let things like that go these days.)

Of course, that had been part of his plan.

In the past, he gravitated toward partners who were—uncomplicated is the wrong word, but maybe _direct_. Forthcoming. If they felt something, they'd say it, or at least they'd give him a clue. And they'd tell him details about their lives, give him the full picture. Most of the time, he didn't even have to ask. 

Not that filing away all that information had been very useful in the long run. All of his recent relationships had collapsed under the strain of his work, generally acknowledged by all parties to be the true love of his life. _Um, I'll be gone for a while. I'm not sure how long it's going to be. I'll see you when I get back?_ He eventually learned to anticipate how each one of them would respond, based on the facts about their lives that they'd chosen to disclose; he was always right, but they were always gone when he returned, just the same. After a while, he'd stopped trying. 

Then this came along, totally unexpected, but it just made sense. Given what the two of them had been through, they were going to be bonded for life anyway. Why not take the next step? Of course, there are still about a million good reasons that they shouldn't have taken that step, about 65% of which are related to regulations, but he's also finding it easier to put things like rules into perspective after their tandem near-death experiences. 

Besides, it's not going to last forever. Even if he might want that, and who knows if he will or not, but even if he does, he has a feeling that he won't have a choice in the matter when she decides to call an end to it. She still slips into an authoritative tone now and then, and he has to remind her – gently – that she's not his boss anymore. (“Not _officially_ ,” she said last time, grinning, only slightly sheepish.) 

But even if it's not a long-term kind of thing, he still wants to know the details, construct a picture of who she is, where she came from. She evades his questions with the skill of someone who's spent a lifetime in hiding, and he can't even articulate how frustrating that is for someone who's devoted his life to tracking people down. After all they've been through, she doesn't trust him enough to tell the truth? 

He tries to lead by example, sharing little vignettes from his childhood, memories of his mother, all the places he's lived. Pets, treehouses, broken bones. She remains silent. When pressed, she might mention something that happened in college. There's not a single photograph in her apartment. Her bookshelves betray no hidden passions. It's as if she's house-sitting for someone else. Maybe she is; how would he know?

There are a few things he knows about her: For a while, she lived with an aunt, who's long dead now. She has three tattoos that she only occasionally regrets. It's hard for her to sit still when she's not working. She almost never initiates physical contact since the incident that they don't talk about, but sometimes late at night she'll burrow against him, and he supposes that he should feel used, but he can't bring himself to mind.

So, when she's asleep, he looks through her medicine cabinet, her desk drawers, her pantry, for something, anything that might satisfy the curiosity he tries to suppress in her presence. The medicine cabinet yields exactly one interesting result: two prescriptions, issued and filled after she was released from the hospital, but the bottles are full. He's willing to bet she didn't take a single pill, based on the absence of any other over-the-counter medications. That's unusual, but it doesn't tell him much. Other than that, there's a spare toothbrush, a comb, floss. Her desk drawers are nearly empty save for some extra copy paper and a couple of USB cables. The kitchen cabinets and drawers are similarly impersonal, nondescript, everything carefully arranged and never used. Then again, he supposes she's gone a lot, too. Not much point to filling up the pantry when you'll just have to throw half of it out.

On a whim, he lifts up the silverware tray. There's some money hidden under there, a stack of crisp bills almost completely obscuring a photograph, face down. He slides it out, careful not to rattle the tray or its contents, and turns on the light, casting a glance toward the bedroom. No discernible movement. The photo is of a little girl, could be her, or maybe a sister; half of it has been ripped off. Unfortunately, the background doesn't provide any usable information. The girl is playing on a lawn, it could be anywhere. But it's oddly reassuring that she might not have sprung into the world fully formed at the age of 18. Of course, who knows? It might not even be her. A niece?

He slips the photo back into position and closes the drawer, a little too loudly. In a panic, he opens the refrigerator, just in case he needs to come up with an excuse for walking around in the middle of the night, and waits to hear her footsteps. After a tense minute or two, he heads toward the living room. One last try.

There's an armoire against the wall that he forgot to check the last time he looked around. Shockingly, the cabinet is empty, but the drawer yields a result that's almost too coincidental: a sealed envelope addressed to her, postmarked last week. He leaves the drawer open and sinks down onto the couch, turning the envelope over and over in his hands. Obviously, he can't open it. He'd hold it up to the light, but that would be ridiculous. Might as well steam it open.

The handwriting is small and neat. He'd identify it as feminine, but there's something off about it. There's no return address, but the postmark is from Church Rock, Iowa. It's small. Like a card.

“Well, you found it,” she says, leaning against the doorway. 

Adrenaline surges through him. He opens his mouth to apologize, but she doesn't sound irritated, though her arms are crossed. She's not even using her boss voice. 

“I don't know why I didn't throw it away.” She sits beside him. “This isn't the first time you've swept the place, right?” 

“You're a light sleeper,” he says. “I'm sorry, I should have--”

“It's okay,” she says, without looking over at him. “I get it. You want to build a profile. I wouldn't expect anything less.”

Her tone is calm, resigned, like she's been expecting this. “I should have waited until you were ready.”

“Don't apologize. I know who you are.” He holds out the envelope, but she doesn't take it from him. “My birthday was two days ago.” 

“What? Why didn't you--”

“We didn't celebrate birthdays where I grew up,” she says. “I still don't. Not for the same reasons.”

“They don't celebrate birthdays in Church Rock, Iowa?” he ventures.

“Not in my family.” 

He considers leaving it at that, but decides to press forward. Slowly, carefully. “Why would they send a card?” 

“It's not from them.” She folds her legs underneath her. “And it's not a card, it's an invitation,” she says. “To come back. I get one every year.” 

She smiles at him, mirthlessly, and suddenly he feels as if he's done something terribly wrong, changed the balance of _this_ , whatever it is or could have been, forever. 

“I used to set them on fire. Now I just recycle them.” 

She's staring straight at him now, and the effect is unsettling. Her eyes are dark and her face is drawn; he can tell that she'd answer any question he wanted to ask right now, and it's probably a one-time event. 

But he just can't bring himself to do it.

She nods at the envelope. “You can open it, if you want.” 

He might not ask, but he still wants to know. (To know what? _More_.) He works a finger under the edge of the flap and is about to tear it open when he stops, abruptly, and sets it on the table. She clearly doesn't want to see the contents, but she's willing to let him open it up. “No,” he says. “Whatever's in there, it doesn't matter.”

“It doesn't?” She's amused. “So all this sneaking around was for nothing?”

“Guess so,” he says. He slides an arm around her shoulders, and she leans against him. 

After all, what good had knowing every little thing about someone ever done him? They always left, regardless of what they'd chosen to share with him when they still thought it might matter. 

“You know,” he says lightly, “I would never have guessed that you were from Iowa.”

“Thanks,” she says, but she's staring at the envelope, and he wants to just rewind this whole evening; if he were half as smart as he's sometimes purported to be, he would have just stayed in bed beside her, he would have allowed himself to be content. Patient. He wants to tell her that he's sorry for dragging it all out into the open. Halfway into the open. A quarter of the way. Whatever. 

Instead he says, “We should go back to bed.” She gets up and heads toward the bedroom without looking back.

He lingers on the couch for a moment, closes his eyes, and wills his brain to stop thinking of all the questions he wants to ask but never will.

“You coming?” Her voice jolts him out of his reverie, and he just stares at her for a moment. She's standing in the doorway, looking at him with concern, but the concern isn't for him; she actually looks worried that his answer might be _no_.

Sometimes he wonders if this is just a casual thing for her, if it's just _easy_ to be with someone who's gone through the same trauma and won't ask you to recount it, if she has any real feeling for him at all. But of all the questions he can't ask her, that one's at the top of the list. In retrospect, he doesn't know what he thought he might find in her cabinets or on her shelves; was he looking for proof? Of what? That she wants him around, and not just as a warm body, safety in numbers?

If so, he thinks he might have just found it, in the almost imperceptible uncertainty that undercuts her impatient expression, that tone that suggests she'll brook no argument. Maybe it's been there all along; maybe he's just been looking in the wrong places.

“Yes, boss,” he says, grinning at her.

She rolls her eyes, but she's laughing, too, and it's enough.

(He doesn't quite believe that, but he wants to, and it seems like a start.)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Jim White song of the same name.


End file.
